


When It Crumbles

by Scarlett



Series: Violent Inside, Beautiful and Evil [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlett/pseuds/Scarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has been enjoying death for a few months. </p><p>Everything changes when a very familiar-looking man sits opposite him in the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It Crumbles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plingo_kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/gifts).



Bond has no idea how many drinks he has had in the past few months. Ten per day? Maybe. Fifteen? Probably. He knows he should control his drinking or at least pay a little more attention to how much he does it, but he doesn’t care at all. He has no reason to. Nothing has purpose anymore, _he_ has no purpose. For the past years his whole life has revolved around MI6, it has been possible to describe his whole identity with pretty much just two words: Agent double-oh-seven.

And what is his identity now? James Bond, missing, presumed dead. He might as well waste his days playing poker to get money, fucking beautiful women and letting alcohol either by itself or together with the pain medication slowly kill him. Or maybe the broken bullet inside his chest will be the one to do it.  

Claire, a housewife on a holiday with whom he had spent the past few nights, has gone back to her hotel a few minutes ago and Bond has just ordered his first drink of the day, when someone sits on the other side of the bar, directly opposite him. It catches his attention because usually there is no one else around than just him and the barman at that time. He raises his eyes from the scotch glass on the bar counter to the man, immediately getting the feeling that he reminds him of someone.  

 _Maybe he just has one of those faces,_ Bond tries to think at first, but that’s not it - the blond-haired man looks way too familiar. He does a quick mental list, tries to make something ring a bell: _The man is in his forties; hair clearly from a bottle; expensive; tailored suit; originally from Spain or has Spanish parents; there could be a gun hidden somewhere under his clothes; overall impression: not just on a holiday._

Bond is still staring at the man, when their eyes meet as he briefly glances at his direction. The agent sees no recognition in the man’s brown eyes, no indication that he’s also thinking that they have met each other before.

Bond hears the barman ask the blond how he is, but doesn’t hear what he answers. A moment later he speaks more loudly.

“Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred,” he says, pronouncing the words with an accent. It isn’t strong, but Bond recognises that it is very likely a Spanish one, just like he thought.

Then it hits him. _A Spanish accent. Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred._ He immediately hears Tiago’s voice speaking in a murmur in his mind. _“Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Here, darling, have one. It’s delicious - it's my favourite drink.”_

He feels like someone has just punched him straight in the face, like there is no air left to breathe. But it isn’t possible. There is no way. Surely there are many more other people who have a Spanish accent and drink their martinis like that, right?

Bond tries to make the thoughts go away, stop them racing through his mind, but he isn’t able to do that even though he knows very well that dead men don’t show up alive fifteen years later. Things like that just don’t happen.

All of a sudden Bond registers that Tiago ( _No, he’s not Tiago, he’s just a random man on a holiday who speaks Spanish and prefers his martinis not stirred but shaken,_ Bond corrects his thoughts and tries hard to make himself believe in them) has gotten up out of his seat and is now slowly walking towards him the drink in his hand. Bond follows the man with his eyes and in a few seconds he is standing right next to him, taking a sip of his martini.

The agent looks straight into the blond’s eyes and that’s when he definitely knows that he is Tiago. Bond notices that there is something different about him, something that he can’t put his finger on. That blond hair, his face looking a bit odd… It’s not just the effect of aging that has cruelly touched his face, it’s something else.

“It took you longer than I expected. Should I be offended?” the former agent asks - making Bond wonder how his voice can be so much more different from what he remembers - and continues talking before the agent is able to let words come out of his mouth: “Never mind. How is your shoulder?”

Bond’s throat is dry as if he hasn’t drunk anything in weeks. He gulps down his drink almost completely.

“Still hurts like hell sometimes,” he says, his voice sounding a bit raspy. He has a feeling that everything is unreal, that he might wake up any time. He thinks that maybe everything _is_ a dream, one of those good ones from which you wake up with a start and then immediately wish that you had been able to stay asleep.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Luckily Nesrin didn’t object to spending some time with you and apparently even took very good care of you.”

“What do you mean?” Bond asks.

“Don’t be silly. I had to make sure that you wouldn’t somehow get yourself killed before I was able to meet you. Ha! I knew that she would be exactly your type.”

“You hired her?”

“Well, you seemed to be really enjoying your time, so I can’t see why you would complain. As a matter of fact, you should be thankful, James. Who do you think saved you from the river when that useless woman shot you?”

For once Bond doesn’t know what to say. His thoughts are racing once again, he’s unable to catch any of them. What he has just heard would make perfect sense as the next thing he remembers after feeling his chest hurt like it was on fire and falling forever is waking up in a bed and seeing a beautiful woman – Nesrin - sitting in a chair, watching him. She looked after him, made him stay in bed and took care of the bullet wound.

“Tiago, I…” Bond sighs.

“Silva,” the blond corrects immediately. He must see the question mark in Bond’s thoughts as with a quick move he places his index finger on the agent’s lips – at the exact moment when the agent feels the finger on his lips he winces and a shiver is sent down his spine – and adds: “No questions, darling. There will be a time for them later.”

He takes his finger on Bond’s lips away and tells him to go to a hotel room, that he just has to use the name Bellamy to receive a key. He finishes his martini in one gulp, places it on the counter and starts to walks away. Bond watches as he leaves and begins to believe that this isn’t a dream. His heart beats fast and he wants to run after the man, but he forces himself to stay sat.

00

Bond goes to the hotel and there indeed is a hotel room booked under the name Silva gave him. He gets the key and discovers that the room is a top-floor suite, probably the best – and the most expensive - one in the whole hotel.

He spends the day by ordering luxurious food from the room service, fucking Claire in her room and thinking about Tiago, emptying the mini-bar mainly to calm his nerves and control the chaos in his head, watching television and waiting and waiting and waiting.

00

It’s almost midnight when Bond hears a knock on his door. It’s so slight that he barely registers it. He gets up, walks to the door and opens it knowing exactly whose face he’s going to see.

For a moment they do nothing but stare at each other. Then Bond slowly moves back and Silva takes a few steps forward, closing the door behind him. He stops right in front of the agent, just a few inches away from him.

Bond feels dizzy and all he’s able to think is, _He’s alive, he’s alive._

Back then, in 1997, after Tiago’s disappearance, he had many dreams that one day Tiago would just all of a sudden appear at his doorstep, alive and well. When months passed, Bond slowly accepted that he would never see Tiago again, that the only thing that was left of him was probably just bones.  

And now he’s there, at touching distance, exactly like in Bond’s dreams so many years ago and that makes him forget to breathe and wonder if this is what happiness feels like. He has never believed in miracles, but this seems to be one.

He wants to ask a million questions. What. Where. When. How. Why.

He knows, however, that this isn’t the right moment for them, just like Silva said earlier.

Not yet.

Now is time for other things.

Bond finally closes the distance between them and presses his mouth on Silva’s. He deepens the kiss a bit and Bond isn’t sure what to think about everything but he knows that he needs Silva and that this feels right and natural and unbelievable and even safe, it feels exactly like it used to – in fact, it feels better. He grabs the blond’s hair and pulls him as close as he can, enjoying the touch of his body against his own and letting the feeling overwhelm him. He hasn’t felt anything like that after Vesper, not even once.

Silva parts his lips and lets Bond’s tongue circle his own and explore his mouth. Suddenly Bond feels something cold on the left side of Silva’s mouth as his tongue brushes against it and he breaks the kiss and opens his eyes.

“What…” he starts and takes one step or two back. Silva looks a little startled, but recovers quickly, grabs Bond's shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s soft at first, but it develops to a pretty brutal one with Silva biting the agent’s lips and tongue so hard that he can almost taste blood.

“Let’s not care about that,” he says against Bond’s mouth after a while.

The agent nods, lifts his hands to the buttons of Silva’s shirt and opens the first one while trying to go through possible answers in his mind to why that something in Silva’s mouth felt like a weird metallic plate, but finds himself completely unable to do that when he feels the former agent’s hands opening his belt, unbuttoning his trousers and sliding inside them.

Soon one hand is inside his pants and around his cock and starting to give the shaft slow, perfectly tight strokes while the other hand travels up Bond’s back to his hair. Silva kisses him hard and lets his hand speed up and after a few seconds changes the pace again to slow strokes, making Bond moan in his mouth and forget all about the shirt and the metallic thing.

After that it doesn’t take long for Bond’s mind to start to go completely blank as he’s getting harder and harder and leaking precome. When Silva’s hand moves next to the head of his dick, spends a couple of seconds that feel more like an eternity rubbing it, slides then down towards his balls and starts to massage them, his vision blurs and a small whimper escapes his lips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans and is able to wonder for a second if it’s possible to get any more harder than he already is, but loses the thought when his balls are all of a sudden cupped and squeezed and he’s sure that he’s going to explode very, very soon. That thought doesn’t last for very long, either, as Silva abruptly loosens his grip on Bond’s prostate and takes his hand away from the pants, leaving the agent harder than ever and catching his breath.

“Why did you stop?” he asks as soon as he’s able to talk.

“Because I didn’t want you to come. Not yet,” Silva answers with an evil-looking grin on his face.

 _Oh, this is new,_ Bond thinks.

Silva proceeds to unbutton Bond’s shirt – the agent is glad that he doesn’t have to do it himself as he feels unable to concentrate on anything else than thinking how he’s very soon going to fuck the blond blind – and when the shirt is on the floor, this time it’s Bond’s turn to pull the former agent against himself and kiss him.

He can’t help rubbing himself against Silva’s thigh while playing a little game with his tongue and walking him backwards until they are next to the bed. Silva undoes his trousers, sits down on the bed, moves to the middle, lies down and Bond crawls over him.

He doesn’t get to be there very long as suddenly the positions change when Silva grabs his waist, flips him over and with one quick move is on the top straddling him. The agent tries to move under him, but it’s useless.

Bond doesn’t like it – all those years ago Tiago always let him be on top. It had never been questioned. In fact, this was the case too with those other men with whom he’d slept over the years.

He tries again to wriggle under Silva, this time even really fight it, grasp his waist and move him, but he’s way too strong.

“James! Tsk, tsk. Be a good boy,” Silva says, pins the agent’s hands above his head and leans down.

“Roll over and get on your knees,” he whispers and bites Bond’s earlobe, “or otherwise I’ll have to make you.”

“And how would you make me?” There’s defiance in Bond’s voice. He has decided that he’s not going to surrender very easily.

“Oh, James, I’m not exactly sure if you want to know.”

“Try me.”

“If you insist, darling. First…” Silva murmurs and licks Bond’s ear. “Have you noticed how the bed frame is just perfect for someone to be tied to it? If I do that, you won’t be able to use your hands or your feet and I will be free to do anything I want to you.”

Bond’s holding his breath as Silva bites his ear again and feels his mouth on his neck, licking and biting it. Then the former agent presses his lips into the skin and spends a moment there, sucking it with growing pressure, determined to make a mark.

“Second…” Silva goes on after he’s ready with the bruise and presses his body against Bond’s. “That won’t be the only mark tonight. I’m going to make so many of them that they will stay on your skin for weeks and let people know that you’re mine.”

 “And third…” he says and does a couple thrusting moves with his hips, making Bond groan. “I won’t let you come, no matter how desperately and loudly you beg and scream and, believe me, that’s what you are going to do if you aren’t going to start behaving like a good boy now.”

Before letting go of Bond’s wrists and sitting back up, Silva rubs himself against the agent’s body a few more times and laughs when he gasps for breath.

“What is your choice, dear?” he asks.

Bond’s slowly starting to get very desperate to come, that’s all he’s capable of thinking right now, and he’s sure that Silva knows it very well. The pressure of the the former agent’s arse on his dick is not enough to make him get his release, but it’s enough to keep him hard. He can hear that Silva is definitely serious and ready to do all those things, there is no playfulness in his voice, so there’s practically just one option left. It can’t be _that_ bad, can it?

“All right,” Bond says silently.

“All right what?”

“I’ll… roll over,” Bond answers.

“Oh.” Silva frowns. “For a second I thought you meant that you’re going to be a bad boy. Well, never mind, we’ll do that some other time then.”

He moves to sit on the side of the bed and Bond rolls over.

“Get on your hands and knees, dear,” Silva commands and the agent does as he’s told.

“That's a good boy.” Silva reaches for the lube in his trousers’ pocket, moves behind Bond and pulls the man’s pants down and then his own.

He squirts some lube on his hand and gently pushes one slicked finger into Bond. The agent holds his breath and squirms and Silva inserts a second one inside him and moves the fingers, carefully stretching him open. Silva pulls his fingers out soon, spreads lube around Bond’s hole, slicks his cock and positions the head on Bond’s opening. 

After a few seconds he slams into the agent with one powerful, quick thrust so that he’s all the way in. Bond lets out a groan, closes his eyes and clenches his fists. Silva feels huge inside him and it burns and hurts and he lets his mind wander a bit and tries to get used to the feeling.

His thoughts return back to the current moment very soon as Silva pulls out almost completely, grasps his hips and slowly thrusts back in and out a few times, making him bite his lip hard. Bond lets his mind wander again. Then it starts to get easier for Silva to press into him and so the former agent starts really fucking him and little by little the pain transforms into something good, _very_ good and every time Silva’s cock fills him he moans loudly and swears and sees stars behind his eyelids squeezed shut and suddenly he never wants it to end.

But then Silva’s thrusts change to deep and slow and perfectly angled and Bond’s achingly hard now and wishes that Silva would stop that little game of his. The agent feels desperate again, decides to play his own game and starts to stroke himself, hoping to make himself finally come, but Silva notices what he’s doing, leans forward, slaps his hand away and wraps his own hand around it instead.

Silva moves his fingers around Bond’s dick up and down quickly in rhythm with his thrusts and Bond gasps for breath and grunts and when the former agent starts teasing the glans by rubbing it with his thumb while tightening the grip of his other fingers around the shaft at the same time, Bond finally comes with a cry and suddenly his hands are unable to hold him up and he’s shaking and feels lightheaded.

Silva pulls him up and fucks him with hard, quick and shallow thrusts that soon become erratic. His breathing grows heavier and heavier and he slams into Bond three more times, tenses and comes inside him, digging his nails into his hips. Bond's vision blurs and he swears that the feeling of Silva’s cock pulsating inside him and filling him with come is one of the most divine feelings he’s ever experienced and that makes him even more breathless than he already is.

Silva lies on top of Bond for a moment, shaking too and catching his breath. When he’s ready, he pulls out slowly and then they both are lying on the bed next to each other, feeling sweaty, ecstatic and almost half-asleep. Bond’s staring at the ceiling, unsure what to do or say, but his problem gets solved when Silva whispers: “Come here”.

Bond looks at the former agent's direction, sees him lying on his side and moves next to him, registering now that he still has his shirt on. He wonders why Silva is hiding his body under it and decides to ask him straightforwardly.

“Is it time for questions now?”  

Silva shakes his head. “Later, darling, later. Everything’s not ready yet,” he says and kisses Bond softly.

The agent kisses him back, knowing very well that Silva’s just avoiding questions and that makes him feel a little annoyed, but, to be honest, at the moment he really doesn’t care. Silva keeps kissing him softly and he shivers and runs his fingers through Silva’s hair and thinks that he wouldn’t mind staying like this forever.

A little while later Bond finds himself resting his head on Silva’s chest and remembers that it’s what they used to do so many years ago after they made love. Silva’s arm is around him and suddenly his eyes are heavy and he feels exhausted and he closes his eyes, meaning to take a brief nap, just for a couple of minutes.

00

A couple of minutes become hours and the next time Bond opens his eyes, it’s already morning. He sits up and looks around, his heart suddenly beating faster. He can’t find Silva anywhere and he’s already starting to think that everything indeed was a dream, but then notices that there’s a note on the nightstand.

_“Dear James,_

_I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay._

_See you in a few days._

_Yours,_

_Tiago”_

As soon as Bond has read it, he gets a sudden flashback. A couple of days before Tiago disappeared, he spent a night together with him and when he woke up, Tiago was gone and there was a note exactly like this waiting for him on the nightstand.

Bond curses, scrunches the note into a ball and feels an emptiness beginning to grow inside him. _Please, not again, not again,_ he thinks and sits there for a moment. Something burns his eyes, and that’s when gets dressed up, leaves the room and walks straight to the bar where he was yesterday, intending to do what he does best: make himself numb by getting drunk.

He orders his first drink and that’s where he stays until it starts to get dark, drinking, staring into the distance and trying to make his thoughts stop. That’s also where he is when he hears the news about a MI6 terror attack.  


End file.
